


a note from the clergy

by deathvalleyusa



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathvalleyusa/pseuds/deathvalleyusa
Summary: Cross-posted from my Tumblr, these are headcanons/short drabble about Ghost.
Kudos: 5





	1. beauty

Papa Emeritus III was a man of taste.

He loved beauty, greatly appreciated artistry. Lived for surrounding himself in such things, dripping head to toe with fabrics and metals and people he found most beautiful.

When there was a liturgy that included sacrifice or summoning, he always made sure they had a vision. Velvet cloaks trailing behind bare feet. Washed skin glowing under candle light. Intricate metalsmithing on the hilts of daggers, jewels of all colors peppered in. There was a certain pageantry to it all, and he alone could elevate it to the spectacle it now was within the ministry.

His brothers appreciated the pageantry less than he did. The First was a man of simplicity, the Second a man of aggressive worship. They were hands on, dirtying their hands and praising the Unholy One bathed in blood. He was less likely to do so. 

But when he did take the reigns, dirtied his own hands, it was meticulous. Everything just _so;_ elegant and perfect. This was just another stage, another performance, and it was all for the One his life was devoted to. He had not the imposing presence of his predecessors, but he had _this_. Style. Finesse. 

_Beauty._


	2. cunning

Cunning. It’s the best word to describe him.

Not many would describe Emeritus III as such. He had heard plenty of times he was a foolish man. Vapid, even. _Lucky_ , spat in a way that implied he did not deserve all he had.

What people assumed he was and what he _truly_ was were quite different. He knew how to get people to play into his game. How to turn a head, how to break down a wall. How to sneak into a soul and put it on strings. To make it dance for his own amusement or do the bidding of the Ministry.

When he ascended, Emeritus III has heard the doubt echoing down halls. That for as little as his elder brothers had accomplished — _Emeritus II in_ _particular_ — he was even less likely to bring any change. To tip the scales in Lucifer’s favor.

The doubt quickly disappeared. Mouths quickly shut with the accolades he received from the outside world. The flock grew, and he proved himself worthy of the name of his forefathers.

You play the beautiful fool long enough, no one expects a thing. And that, Emeritus III knew, was where his power would spring from.


	3. name

On the day of his ascension, Papa Emeritus III lost his name.

He had been told for many years that he should not grow too attached to it. That he was destined to take a title. That heading the Clergy meant sacrifices, and his given name was one of them.

The only ones allowed to use his given name were his immediate family, and even then it was rare. It was always “Little Brother”, “My Son”, ~~“Hey Asshole”~~. Avoided seeing him as a person, just as a symbol of what their bloodline and power built.

He had been guilty of this too with the elder Emeritus brothers. But the ramifications were not understood until the Second addresses him as “Papa”, his name never uttered again unless in harsh, mocking tones. When the First called him Emeritus in a Clergy meeting, trying to get his attention.

The Dark Prince gifted handsomely to those who followed, but He needed trinkets in return. Papa Emeritus III had received all he could ever ask for. The exchange, it seemed, was last bit of his private self he had not already given away.


	4. power

Once you get a taste of _true_ power, it’s hard to let it go.

Papa Emeritus III had the most divine taste of it. Bathed in the intoxicating light of global adoration. Wrapped himself every night in a cloak of the security of control.

He had ignored the warnings. The displeased yapping of Sister Imperator. The strongly worded letter direct from his own father. The eldest Emeritus had pulled him aside one afternoon. Tried to talk sense into his youngest brother. The Second gave him a bitter reminder over a shared drink of his purpose, of the expectations of his reign.

The ego, however, tends to deflect all warning. He, after all, was the shining star. The church would be so much _less_ without him. And without another person in the Emeritus line, who could take his title? Who would _dare_?

But, as Imperator had always told the Ghouls, everyone was replaceable. Expendable.

Now, he was just another son of Nihil, wandering the halls without purpose. Stripped of the title, the power, the respect. He had it torn from his hands, watched as Sister Imperator gave a sly smile as it happened. As proud a man he was, he begged. Pleaded for another chance. Instead, they put away his vestments. Replaced his colors in the halls with Nihil’s. Wiped away every remaining bit of the being he was for those short, glorious years of his life.

There were still his earthly delights available to him. Any whim or fantasy he had wanted fulfilled before his ascension still within reach. But he had tasted something so _exquisite_ ; everything else now turned to ash in his mouth.


	5. symbiotic

One of the lesser known about parts the Unholy church is their relationship with the local town.

The local townfolk don’t care much to learn about their teachings or goals. For hundreds of years, the church has existed beside them. It is as common as fields of cornflower and _smörboll_. The people within it are polite. And, as a few older shopkeepers would whisper to tourists, without the church, the local economy would surely take a hit. After all, the Higher Clergy, when in town, spend lavishly.

The three brothers are well regarded, although rarely seen in town. The eldest is the most pleasant to deal with; he chats with the shopkeepers, buys little knick knacks that appeal to his fancy. The middle Papa talks less, but those he takes a liking to (the winery and tailor) in particular is in his good graces) enjoy his company. The youngest one is a chatterbox, all the town will tell you that. He’s cordial, liberal with his money, but a bit of a klutz. There’s been a few things broken in more delicate shops, but nothing he hasn’t graciously overpaid and apologized profusely for.

There are plenty of folks belonging to the church that have decided to live outside the dormitories, so it’s not unusual to see a friendly face in town. And many in the dorms frequently visit town! A favorite trip for many is farmer’s market day, with the Clergy allowing for a stall to be set up for various goods. A few best sellers are the floral soaps and giant strawberries during bountiful harvests. The townsfolk have learned, however, to avoid asking about the strange carvings on the underside of some of the trinkets sold. Although they always seem to be for things like luck or protection…

There is never a pleasant answer to who the sigils are connected to.


End file.
